


Everybody's Lookin' For Something

by dulcepericulum (keziahrain)



Series: hold your head up [1]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: 1990s, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Billy Hargrove is a Mess, Billy is Alive, Condoms, Consent Issues, Enemies to Lovers, Gay Bar, Hopeful Ending, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Past Domestic Violence, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Season/Series 02, Power Dynamics, Spanking, Steve Harrington Has a Big Dick, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:55:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27767875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keziahrain/pseuds/dulcepericulum
Summary: Steve and Billy have an unexpected reunion 10 years after high school. It escalates quickly.(In this universe, Season 3 was all someone's fever dream, except for Robin. She's not in this story, but she exists because she's wonderful.)
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Original Male Character(s), Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Series: hold your head up [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2043124
Comments: 20
Kudos: 190





	Everybody's Lookin' For Something

**Author's Note:**

> First time poster! (peeks out from behind rock) Thank you to my long-suffering husband who not only edited this for me but endured an intense primer on Harringrove in order to understand it. Twu wuv! 
> 
> A note on consent issues: they both wanna be there, doing exactly what they're doing, but are terrible at communicating about it. And also drinking.
> 
> Also, warning for a couple uses of the f-word self-referentially.

Who would’ve thought?

Two former high school rivals, jocks, bullies, heartbreakers, _avowed_ _heterosexuals_ , bumping into each other ten years later in a seedy Boystown bar. On amateur drag night.

One second, Steve’s leaning against the bar, knocking back the last of his drink and half-watching the performance across the crowded room, half-checking out the perfect ass in skintight jeans right next to him.

The next second, the ass turns around, and Steve’s heart tries to escape through his throat, because that ass belongs to none other than Billy Hargrove.

(Why didn’t he recognize it?)

Annie Lennox’s thick voice pulses around them as the drag queen lip-syncs across the small, spot-lit stage: 

_Some of them want to use you_

_Some of them want to get used by you_

_Some of them want to abuse you_

_Some of them want to be abused_

The mullet’s gone, leaving tidier curls behind; he’s a bit leaner too, less built up. But it’s unmistakably Billy Hargrove, from the spicy cologne he must’ve bathed in to the black shirt open halfway down his chest despite the cold weather. 

Like Steve, Billy’s got an elbow propped on the bar and a drink in hand. He looks poised to flirt but he’s perfectly still, as if someone hit pause on the VCR. Those sharp, blue eyes – Steve could never forget them – are round with surprise, framed by mascara-thick lashes. His elegant jaw has literally dropped, pulling his pink lips apart. 

Billy Hargrove, he of the wagging tongue and endless taunts, shocked into absolute silence by the sight of Steve Harrington.

_King Steve, King Steve, everybody!_

And Steve can’t help it – he starts to laugh. A Dustin-worthy hysterical sort of giggle, really. 

It’s nerves, sure, but it’s a strange joy as well; joy at this unexpected turn of events, joy at the absurdity of it all, joy at his own surprise.

It’s also clearly the wrong move. No sooner does the sound escape then an old familiar storm moves in, fear and fury crossing over Billy’s features as powerfully as clouds and lightning in the sky. And Steve remembers that expression all too well; the last time he saw it was a million years ago at the Byers’ house, and that didn’t work out so well.

But instead of attacking, Billy slams his drink down on the bar. Steve can tell he’s a hair’s breadth from shoving off and stomping away.

Now, Steve would be the first to admit he’s really thrown for a loop here. But there is one thing he knows with absolute clarity, deep in his gut – _Billy absolutely cannot leave. Steve cannot let that happen._ They need to talk, need to _acknowledge_ this incredible and unlikely encounter, because – because without a doubt, this is the most exciting thing that’s happened to Steve in a long time.

It can’t just be over before it’s started.

So without even thinking more about it, surprising himself just a bit, Steve reaches out and grabs Billy tightly around one wrist. 

“No,” he commands, his voice far more authoritative than usual. Where is that confidence at his dad’s company? "Billy. Don’t run away.”

The flesh and bone in Steve’s hand feels so solid. Warm. Billy looks appalled but – amazingly – he doesn’t try to shake Steve off. They stare at each other for a few beats.

_Hold your head up_

_Keep your head up, movin' on_

_Hold your head up, movin' on_

Steve takes a steadying breath and tries again, gently but firmly.

“Billy. Stay.”

The _please_ is implied.

Billy stays, but the grimace says he’s not happy about it. Steve lets go of his wrist.

The drag queen has finished her number to a smattering of applause. The sound system switches to dance music and people begin moving around. Billy and Steve remain frozen in place, like a painting. Steve can hear his heartbeat in his ears; he wonders if Billy can hear his own. 

“What are you doing here?” Steve demands.

The tension finally cracks as Billy chuffs and smirks and sort of glances around. 

“What do you think?” he says pointedly.

That voice sounds _exactly_ the same to Steve, so evocative of high school, like Billy’s goading a homeroom teacher into giving him detention. And Steve’s instantly transported back ten years; he can’t help but sigh in exasperation, even as this new data reverberates through his whole being.

_Billy Hargrove cruising a gay bar._

_Like me._

Up until this moment, there had been a small but mighty part of Steve assuming there would be some logical, non-homosexual explanation for Billy’s presence in this bar; that Billy could not possibly be here for the same reasons as Steve. To hear the truth confirmed so directly and unflappably is… it’s thrilling.

“I meant Chicago,” Steve plows on, fooling no one. “What are you doing in Chicago?”

Billy looks at him like he’s a moron – hopefully a sign that he’s calming down.

“I live here.”

“I do too,” Steve says. “Lakeview.”

Billy doesn’t volunteer his neighborhood. He regards Steve with open skepticism.

“You gay, Harrington?” he asks.

Billy’s question is one Steve’s been asking himself. 

“I think I’m like 50 percent gay,” he answers, and tries to act natural. His nocturnal activities in the last year notwithstanding, Steve’s never actually admitted this aloud to anyone. Is this alcohol-fueled candor? 

Billy looks dubious.

“You know there’s a word for that?” he says. “Whatever. I’m 100 percent. Total homo.”

This revelation shouldn’t be surprising given the context, yet Steve can’t help but feel taken aback. Billy Hargrove’s pussy chasing was the stuff of locker room legend.

Billy glares at him. “What?” he snaps. “You heard me. Billy Hargrove’s a faggot. You can tell anyone you want. I don’t give a shit.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” Steve says quickly, wincing.

Billy sighs and pulls a battered pack of Marlboros out of his back pocket, offering them to Steve, who declines; he quit after high school. There’s a pack of matches by the ashtray on the bar, and Billy uses one to light up. He does it flawlessly, despite the slight tremble in his hands.

Steve watches Billy’s mouth, entranced, as he draws the smoke in, breathes it out; he almost doesn’t catch Billy’s question. 

“You still see Max?” 

“Um. Sure. Last time was New Year’s.” Max never mentions Billy. Nobody ever mentions Billy.

“Little bitch actually kept a lid on it,” Billy mutters, and Steve would be offended on Max’s behalf, except Billy’s tone is oddly affectionate.

“What are you talking about?”

“The Hargrove-Mayfield Christmas Massacre of ’87,” Billy intones. He’s smiling, but in that weird way of his – it looks almost like he’s in pain. “Picture this, Harrington. I’m twenty years old, in Hawkins over UCLA winter break. Do I want to be there? Fuck no. But my old man covers partial tuition, see? I only got half a ride. Asshole acts like I don’t have a choice. Like I owe him. Even though he can’t stand the sight of my fucking face, he expects me to pay homage. So, I get back, and we do our dance a few times – I piss him off, he puts me on the ground. The usual.”

He pauses to pull again on his smoke. Steve watches him, rapt. This is, by far, the longest and most personal monologue he’s ever heard from Billy Hargrove. 

“Anyway. It’s four days before Christmas. Dad and Susan want to take Max to this dumb Christmas play. She doesn’t give a fuck, but they’re delusional when it comes to her. Always have been. But I can’t go because I have a black eye. Devastating for everyone. While they go play happy family times, I go out looking for dick behind the senior center.”

“Wait, what?” Steve interrupts.

“Oh, you didn’t know?” Now Billy has a genuine grin, pleased to scandalize Steve. “All the secret Hawkins homos hang out there after dark.”

“ _What_?”

“That Chief Hopper guy knew all about it, but he mostly looked the other way. I got the feeling he had different priorities.” 

“How did _you_ know about it?”

Billy looks smug. “Hawkins never had that much going on, Harrington. There wasn’t much I didn’t know.”

Steve has to let that one go.

“So what happened?” he says, trying not to clench his fists. 

“I ran into Kyle Weaver.”

At first Steve draws a blank, and then it hits him like a bus.

“Hawkins High quarterback Kyle Weaver? No fucking way.” 

“The very same,” Billy nods easily, like it’s no big deal. “We found each other in the dark – kind of like you and me tonight, Harrington.” His smile turns wicked.

Steve draws in his breath, holds it.

Billy continues, “Problem was, it was freezing. Fucking Indiana. Too cold to get it up.” He shivers a bit, as if remembering the chill. Then: “I get the genius idea to bring him back to my dad’s house. Thought we’d have it to ourselves for a few hours.”

Billy pauses here, perhaps for drama.

Steve lets out that breath, can’t help but take the bait: “But you didn’t?”

And despite the bravado he’s displayed up until this point, something else – something grim – creeps into Billy’s expression now.

“Nope.”

Billy goes on to describe how he and Kyle drove in their separate cars back to Cherry Road, walked in the front door of the Hargrove home and started going at it, not even bothering to turn the lights on.

Steve finds himself wishing that Billy would provide vivid details. _Who was doing what to whom? What was Billy’s role exactly? Was he giving or receiving? Did he like it?_

Billy and Kyle were so consumed by each other – young, horny, distracted – that they didn’t hear the truck bringing Neil, Susan, and Max home much too early. Susan had a bad cough, so they snuck out of the show before the first intermission. When they opened the front door and flipped on the lights, there was Billy giving Kyle a blowjob on Mr. Hargrove’s La-Z-Boy. 

Steve: “Dude. Gross.” 

Billy winked. “Max would agree with you.” 

Kyle, in spite of being half-naked, was up and out before anyone could even say a word. Billy doesn’t blame him, never did. (Steve finds he does, irrationally.)

Neil proceeded to beat the shit out of Billy while Susan and Max cried in the background. Threw him around the room, broke furniture, broke his wrist.

Like show and tell, Billy holds up the wrist that was fractured eight years ago. Steve realizes it’s the wrist he grabbed earlier. Wincing, he tries to communicate an apology into Billy’s eyes with his own. But Billy doesn’t seem angry – he’s just holding Steve’s gaze, quietly daring Steve to look away.

Steve doesn’t look away.

Max finally snuck to another room and called Hopper because she was afraid Neil wouldn’t stop. Hopper drove over, off-duty, pulled Neil off Billy and threatened to arrest him. But Billy didn’t want to press charges. There was a lot of arguing.

“Meanwhile, I’m sitting at the table watching my wrist grow three sizes while Max keeps putting TV dinners on it,” Billy remembers, chuckling, like _kids, amirite?_ , while Steve cringes with discomfort.

In the end, Neil drove off in his truck, and Hopper drove Billy, Susan, and Max to the hospital. While Billy got patched up, Hopper convinced him to at least apply for an emergency restraining order against his dad, which he did.

Susan and Max temporarily moved into a little furnished apartment downtown. It all happened over the course of a brutal, sleepless 48 hours. Billy stayed with them for the rest of his break. Eventually Susan and Neil got back together, but Billy never returned to Hawkins again.

Steve recalls how Max’s mom and stepdad were briefly separated around Christmas of 1987. At the time, he felt sort of embarrassed for her. He remembers seeing her at the Byers New Year’s Eve party that year, thinking she seemed even more jaded than usual. God, he had no idea. 

Steve has so many questions, none of which feel right to say aloud: _Did you ever fight back? Why did no one actually call the police? Why didn’t you want your dad arrested? Why didn’t Hop throw the book at him anyway? How did I never know about this monstrous, evil thing happening right where I lived, involving all these people I know?_

Billy seems to detect everything on Steve’s mind; he smokes and looks thoughtfully at Steve, then answers everything with one simple, complicated statement: “He’s my dad.”

As Steve tries to process what that means, Billy ultimately breaks eye contact, glancing down at his dwindling cigarette.

“Plus, you know. He still paid my tuition at UCLA,” he adds, sounding – what? Rueful? Resigned?

Steve can’t figure it out, but there’s outrage bubbling up from deep within.

“Well, that’s the least the asshole could do!” he snaps.

At this, Billy appears confused and mildly defensive. 

“Calm your tits, Harrington. I know.” He does not sound convinced or convincing. “Besides, Neil Hargrove’s worst nightmare came true. He’s got a pillow biter for a son. And I’m telling you, I don’t care who knows.”

At this exact moment, the bartender materializes and offers refills. They are both quick to accept, Steve indicating they’re on him. Turns out they’re both drinking whisky.

In the natural pause that follows, Steve’s brain can’t help but conjure up Billy Hargrove face-down on a bed, biting a pillow. The image sends urgent signals to his crotch, a morse code with a single, pulsing message:

_Want_

_Want_

_Want_

And not in a horny way, but Steve hasn’t felt this _awake_ since he was 18 years old, an improbable but awesome nail-bat in his hands, defending a group of middle-schoolers from impossible but very real monsters.

There’s a low-key buzz in the air, that old electricity that makes him feel alive and alert and ready for anything. And Steve knows the source is Billy, or actually the space between Billy and Steve, a chasm that he suddenly wants to cross; Steve wants to reach out and grab hold of Billy’s arms or sides or hair and pull him in, see how he’ll respond.

Billy, who was always unpredictable and edgy, and still is, although his edges seem a bit smoothed with age; or maybe the difference is that Steve is no longer so unsure of his footing around him. 

Billy watches cagily as Steve swallows most of his drink and pulls some cash out of his wallet for the bartender. He can tell he’s drawn far more than necessary, but Steve knows the service industry is no walk in the park.

Plus, he can’t really think about anything right now besides how much he wants Billy.

Steve can always tell when a choice that is impulsive, brave, and quite possibly foolish is about to burst out of him. Here’s the thing: he’s never regretted a single one.

“Let’s get out of here,” he says, purposefully not phrasing it as a question, because in his mind it’s not. Billy Hargrove coming back to his apartment is an inevitability.

Steve’s certain the inescapable tide of this moment stretches much further back than tonight, back to when they were angry teenagers, glaring at each other in locker rooms and basketball courts and the gloom outside of Joyce Byers’ house. Steve hadn’t known what was happening then. He hadn’t had the words at eighteen to describe the effects of Billy Hargrove. 

A lot has changed for Steve since then.

Billy has changed too. Steve can see he’s thinking before he’s speaking; the Billy of his memories was not capable of such restraint. Steve has a wild desire to shake Billy, to demand to know what’s going on inside his head – like Billy owes him that information. 

“In high school, you never shut up,” Steve says instead. “Now I just want to know what you’re thinking.”

Billy looks caught off guard for the second time tonight, then shrugs.

“OK, pretty boy,” he says, carefully neutral, like he doesn’t want to give too much away. “If you say so. Let’s go.” 

* * *

And that’s how they end up in a taxi, zipping through the night to Steve’s place. It’s not a long walk from Boystown to his apartment, and it’s a very fast ride. They don’t really have time to talk before they’re pulling up to the building. Steve’s aware that he’s drunk, but he feels on high alert, all senses engaged. 

It’s _Billy fucking Hargrove_ shoved into the backseat of this this cab with him.

He throws random bills at the driver, suspecting that – once again – he’s comically overpaying. Billy might be quietly mocking him with his eyes, but Steve doesn’t dare check. 

They don’t look at each other as they enter Steve’s building and take the elevators up. Billy even trails a few paces behind Steve. Would passersby even know they’re headed to the same place? It only heightens Steve’s excitement. The whole situation feels illicit, problematic, taboo.

What would Nancy say? Steve wonders. Jonathan? Mrs. Wheeler and her mom-friends, always lusting after Billy on lifeguard duty at the community pool?

These thoughts are delicious.

His apartment keys almost outsmart him but, in the end, he wins, and the door opens; and finally, finally, they’re inside, where one small floor lamp is already on. The door thumps closed behind them and Steve thumps Billy’s body against the door. Their mouths smash together with the force of cymbals.

They stay like that for a while, inhaling each other’s skin, tasting not just with mouths but with hands that roam beneath clothes. Steve sticks his face in Billy’s neck and grabs at his hair, breathes in his scent, traps it in his lungs and feels stoned.

And then Billy flips them – he’s still strong, fast – and Steve’s back is to the door. Billy drops gracefully to his knees at Steve’s feet. The sight is enough to make Steve, already chubbing, perk right up in his briefs. Billy executes a few quick maneuvers around Steve’s fly and his dick springs from its confines. 

“And here he is, King Steve!” Billy declares, sounding delighted.

“Billy –” Steve isn’t sure what he intends to say, but then Billy spits on his hand and grips the base of his cock, pumping firm and steady. With the other hand, Billy reaches under and finds that little stretch of skin behind his balls. He strokes there almost too gently, making Steve want to chase his touch. Steve feels wobbly and wishes there was something he could hold. He doesn’t dare hold onto Billy, not yet. 

“Plant your feet, Harrington!” Billy crows, like it’s their old joke. 

“Fuck you,” Steve gasps.

“In a minute,” says Billy, and Steve’s eyes are screwed shut with the concentration of trying not to come too soon. He feels the sudden, cool absence of Billy’s hands, hears and feels Billy’s spit landing on his dick before the confident grip returns.

“I know you want to fuck me,” Billy continues. “Put me in my place after all the shit I pulled in high school.”

“What?” Steve mumbles. His whole world is reduced to his cock and Billy’s hands, in particular Billy’s thumb and forefinger, currently applying excruciating pressure at the top of his shaft, right below the head.

“Beating your keg record,” Billy hums. He sounds a little ragged. Turned on. “Stealing your spot in basketball. Kicking the shit outta you.”

“I don’t care about that,” Steve says, irritated. Why is Billy talking about this now? “Christ, I’m gonna come soon.”

“Hold your horse cock, Harrington,” Billy replies.

The hands are gone again, and Steve produces a noise that, under any other circumstances, would cause his own death from mortification. Then: foil being torn.

He opens his eyes and beholds Billy readying a condom over Steve’s dick.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

The look he gets is pure _Steve Harrington, you’re an idiot_ , but then Billy winks. 

“It’s the ‘90s, Harrington. ‘Be a Rubberman.’ ‘No Glove, No Love.’ You don’t know where I’ve been.”

Steve gazes into Billy’s eyes, which aren’t boiling over with intensity but seem to be at a low simmer, and he can tell: Billy’s kind of joking but he’s also sincere. He hopes Steve is being careful out there. 

And the thing is, Steve knows to use protection, thank you very much. He _always_ does when he hooks up. This encounter is no different – that wasn’t what he was asking. Billy just caught him off guard. He had hoped there would be a little more negotiation at this stage. Maybe a little exploring. Steve loves to top, and he currently wants nothing more than to top Billy Hargrove, but he’s also flexible. He’s curious about what Billy likes. He really wants to make Billy feel good.

To be honest, he also wants to make out more against the door, maybe on the couch. This handy has been incredible, but Steve feels like he could easily kiss Billy Hargrove for hours if allowed. 

“OK, look,” Billy says bluntly, staggering to his feet, condom still in hand. “Focus for a sec, King Steve. You wanted to know what I was thinking. Well listen up: I came out tonight looking to get fucked.” He pronounces the words calmly, slowly, so that Steve can absorb every syllable. “Maybe get my ass whipped with a belt. Maybe get choked or tied up, if I found a guy who knew what he was doing. That would scratch an itch, you know what I mean? But the most important thing, Harrington, the thing that made me leave my nice warm apartment, was the chance to get railed by monster dick. I need someone to hold me down and fuck me so hard I can’t walk tomorrow.”

There is one part of Steve that thinks his erection should flag at these words, this sudden and unsolicited admission of violent sexual fantasies from Billy Hargrove, especially in light of Steve what has learned about Billy’s past. 

There is another, stronger part of Steve – specifically, Steve’s cock – that has somehow become even fuller, harder. He is so turned on, he might scream. A quick glance down reveals what he knows will be there: little drops of pre-cum leaking from the tip. Billy sees it too, and leans in, looking like one of those feral alley cats Steve sees on his way to the L – dangerous and endangered at the same time. 

“I used to dream about your dick, King Steve. You know that?” He grabs Steve’s bicep with his free hand, voice pitched low, like he’s sharing a secret, or terrible news. His eyes are shining. “You drove me so crazy back in high school. Couldn’t stop watching you. Knew I could never have you. You didn’t give a shit about me. That much much was clear. But I wanted you so bad. I hated you so much for it. Hated my whole fucking life. I was such a miserable little faggot. Truth is, I’m a worthless piece of shit, Harrington. I wanted to kill you that night at that creepy house. Kill you, then kill myself –”

“Oh my God, _shut up_!” Steve interrupts. 

In this moment, Steve thinks he’ll do anything to get Billy to stop talking. Billy doesn’t know Steve, he doesn’t know anything, and Steve can’t take another second of it. He has to make this shit stop, he has to dam this river of self-loathing somehow –

It’s probably the raging hard-on that inspires Steve to use his own body. 

He grabs Billy and lurches away from the door, sends them stumbling toward the nearby overstuffed sofa. Billy starts to struggle but Steve has the element of surprise (and Billy probably isn’t trying that hard). Steve bends Billy over one arm of the couch, twisting him so that he’s face-down on the cushions, his legs hanging off the other side, conveniently propped and angled at the waist. They both pant in the aftermath of the tussle, Steve’s hands scrambling for purchase against Billy’s broad back, his erection digging painfully into something taut and unforgiving – Billy’s belt.

They’ll get that out of the way soon. But first – 

“Still have that condom?” he manages. 

Billy doesn’t respond. Steve blinks, realizes Billy _can’t_ respond, because Steve’s pressing his face into the cushion. He didn’t want those terrible words to start up again. He eases up (but doesn’t let go), and Billy’s voice emerges, subdued and rough. 

“I dropped it.”

“Don’t worry, I come prepared,” Steve says lightly. “It is the ‘90s.”

Steve reaches into his own back pocket and pulls out a condom. This is just as well; he prefers his own brand to whatever Billy may have had with him. Steve steps back slightly from Billy, making quick work of opening the pack and rolling it on. 

Meanwhile, Billy cooperatively lifts slightly from the couch and scrambles around underneath himself; he undoes his belt and tugs his jeans down over his hips.

He’s not wearing any briefs. 

The sight of Billy’s naked ass, right here and waiting for him, brings the reality of the situation home. They’re ten years older, but Billy’s ass is (still) a thing of beauty: round, shapely, muscular, tapering into thick, well-built thighs. Skin-tone even, smooth, downy with hair. This ass belongs on a Greek statue in a museum, not bent over Steve’s couch. Not that Steve’s complaining. He wants to sink his teeth into it like a peach, lick it like a lollipop, beat it like a drum… 

“Earth to King Steve,” Billy grumbles from below. “You freeze up? Should I turn you off and on again?”

Steve blinks out of his reverie and, before he can talk himself out of it, delivers a hard smack to Billy’s right ass cheek. 

The sound is outrageous, and time seems to slow down. The insanity of the entire evening catches up to Steve and dangles him over a terrifying precipice. Is this it? Was it all a ruse? Is this the moment when the Billy Hargrove of yore returns to restore things to their natural order and murder Steve Harrington with his bare hands? 

But nothing like that happens.

Instead, Steve watches, fascinated and aroused, as a shiver runs through Billy’s entire body. He seems to vibrate then go limp. Steve wishes desperately he could see Billy’s face; what is his expression right now? 

Steve lifts his hand high over his head and smacks Billy again. 

And again. And again.

And next thing he knows, Steve is giving his high school bully a sound spanking right there in his living room. He really puts his arm into it. It’s not the belt-whipping Billy says he craves, but that perfect ass reddens right up, the color of shame, or excitement. Steve thrills at the power, the fact that Billy has allowed himself – literally – into this position. 

_Smack_

_Smack_

_Smack_

As he spanks, Steve pictures Billy’s ass tight as a drum. He delivers a brisk, percussive beating that, he hopes, will echo through Billy’s whole being; he wants Billy to really feel this deep down, to feel _tenderized_ by Steve’s hand, to sit down later and remember Steve –

Does Billy let just anybody do this? If it hadn’t been Steve tonight, would it be just some other guy?

That thought stills his arm. 

Billy is trembling. And sniffling, wetly. That’s apparent now, in the abrupt silence. 

“Are you crying?” Steve asks, concerned. He reaches for the back of Billy’s neck to – what? give comfort? – but then aborts mission almost immediately.

Billy sounds destroyed when he answers.

“Fuck me already, you stupid son of a bitch.”

There he is. 

The truth is, Steve’s had this boner for a really long time now, and he’s worried it will break if he doesn’t use it soon. Billy has made it very clear what he wants from Steve. There’s no reason not to give it to him. Right?

“OK. Christ. Hold on.”

Steve braces one hand on Billy’s waist. He sucks the pointer finger of his other hand and then brushes in-between Billy’s smarting ass-cheeks, finding the tight bud of his hole. 

He brushes his damp finger against it, saying hello: “I’m going in.” 

He almost hears Billy rolling his eyes, so he plunges in without further ado. The coil of muscle feels snug around his finger but not reactively tight. Billy’s obviously no stranger to this activity; he probably prepared himself before going out tonight. The thought makes Steve salty, so he pushes in deeper, seeking out that spot that other guys taught him about when he first started cruising. Billy’s breath hitches and he jolts slightly.

_Found it._

Steve works that spot in Billy with one hand, gently cradling and stroking his own balls the other, until he can’t stand it anymore, and apparently neither can Billy: 

“Any day now,” he grunts.

And Steve doesn’t even dignify that with a response. He withdraws his finger, lines up his dick with Billy’s hole, and unceremoniously inserts the tip. He and Billy both groan in tandem, like pressure finally released from twin valves. Steve pauses, waiting for Billy to signal “stop” or “go,” but Billy only shudders below him, barely making a sound above a whimper. Is it pain? Is it pleasure? Both?

It seems best to carry on. It seems impossible to do otherwise. Aided by the lubricant on the condom and more spit, Steve pushes himself further in, then pulls out; then in, then out, at last creating a steady rhythm, his body an unrelenting pedal, like some old steam engine whose sole purpose is to fuck the daylights out of Billy Hargrove.

_Up, down_

_Up, down_

_Up, down_

Steve grasps Billy’s shoulders like handles, steadying himself; it’s as if his lifeblood drains from his extremities and rushes to his cock, the overflow pooling in his gut. Billy feels extraordinary around him, like a custom glove, like his body is a perfect sleeve for Steve’s, like they were designed to slot together this way. At least Steve thinks so; does Billy?

_In, out_

_In, out_

_In, out_

Billy is so quiet, unlike Steve who, distantly, can hear himself moaning. It would be humiliating except he’s way too gone to care about that, although he does care about Billy. Is Billy whispering to himself? What is he saying? Steve wants to know, even though his thoughts are turning into the Milky Way. 

And just as Steve reaches toward Billy’s head, with the intention of tilting his face – gently, gently – so they could maybe see each other, please, just make eye contact – the orgasm that has been building for (what feels like) days is finally – finally – _finally_ allowed to crest.

And Steve hovers there in a flash of pure, quiet bliss, staring at a piece of Billy Hargrove’s hair that curls around the rib of his ear.

Then Steve’s swept away like a tiny fish in a tidal wave, an insignificant thing in the thrall of something far bigger and more powerful, leaving him shattered in its wake. He’s flattened against Billy’s back, deposited there it feels like, his own weight pinning Billy down and his dick still piercing Billy in half. He feels this junction of their two bodies, wet and warm, pulsing with a heartbeat. Whose?

Steve rests in the aftermath, breathing deeply from his diaphragm exactly the way his yoga instructor is always encouraging him to do. At the studio, it’s always so hard to calm his body and downshift from the shallow, nervous breathing that comes so naturally to him. 

But here, draped heavily over Billy, his lungs are like a fireplace bellows. Filling up and blowing out, slow, steady… 

_In, out_

_In, out_

_In, out_

  
Feeding the fire that is Billy Hargrove. 

Billy. Steve should check on Billy. See how he’s doing. Offer to get him off. He can’t lie on top of the guy like this forever. 

But not for another minute. Steve hasn’t felt this relaxed since… since he can’t remember. Extremities tingling, his whole system bathed in lighthearted hormones. A chemical dance party. The comforting press of another person who’s not a stranger. 

As far as he can tell, Billy’s breathing deeply too. 

Steve smiles. 

* * *

When Steve startles awake, sometime around dawn, he’s lying on the couch with a throw blanket tossed over him. Alone. Mild hangover. 

After a few moments of complete discombobulation, it all comes back with the quality of a dream. Steve cannot quite believe any of it. Did he really fall asleep with his dick stuck in Billy Hargrove? Following one of the best orgasms – if not the best orgasm – of his life? After discovering his sexual repertoire may include somewhat more kinky things than he previously thought? 

_What the fuck?_

Steve does not remember Billy extracting himself or manhandling Steve onto the couch. Billy may be leaner, but he’s still sturdy as hell. Steve’s not a small man.

With a combination of chagrin and gratitude, Steve also notes the condom has been removed from his penis, disposed of, and his fly closed up.

Feeling guilty, but not knowing what else to do with himself, Steve takes stock of the apartment, just to be sure. As far as he can tell, Billy hasn’t taken anything. 

He has left some things behind, though.

First thing: an enormous cum stain on the upholstered arm of Steve’s couch. It seems that Steve needn’t have worried about Billy getting off. He wonders when, exactly, Billy came. The spanking? The fucking? When during the fucking? Then he wonders how the hell to remove cum stains. This is not a task to save for the housecleaners.

Second thing: it takes Steve a while to spot this one. He showers and starts cooking breakfast. He feels bewildered, overwhelmed, and a little sad for reasons he can’t quite articulate. It seems like the best thing to do is start the day, despite the early hour. 

He’s opening the fridge to get creamer for his coffee when he spots it: a post-it note stuck to the door. It’s not his handwriting, and it wasn’t there yesterday.

It’s a phone number.


End file.
